


Born Famous

by delires



Series: Chav!verse [7]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-07
Updated: 2012-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-09 09:11:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delires/pseuds/delires
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In London chance encounters happen and slip away again, like sand in an hourglass. Prequel to 'We Can Do This Until We Pass Out'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Born Famous

They aren’t far from Russell Square when some posh dickheads get on the bus. One of them is fit, but the others are pretty standard Chelsea wankers, with faces like horses and teeth too big for their mouths. They’re liquored up, any knob can see that. Loud and clumsy, not used to the bus - they’re liable to get mashed by some fucker if they don’t watch themselves. Eames won’t be stepping in to stop it happening. You got to keep your head down, not get involved in that vigilante shit. Getting involved where your involvement ain’t wanted – that’s the reason for Eames’s brother being laid up in a hospital halfway across town right now, a jagged knife wound in his left side. 

The city boys are arguing, leaning out of their seats and clinging to the metal poles so that they can look at the map of the bus route. Their voices ain’t quiet. From the sound of things, the Overground is a mess and these boys are trying to puzzle out an alternative route to Hoxton. Eames wants to go over there and tell them that they can walk easy from Old Street or Liverpool Street – all they got to do is hop on a tube – but boys like them probably don’t deserve his help.

They’re loud, though, and them West London voices grate on you.

“Oh my days. Fuck this shit,” Jordan says, and tucks his brand new ear buds into his ears.

Eames only has the old kind still, with the headband attached. You can’t carry those things around in your pocket. He needs to get himself hooked up. He needs to make a fucking penny, so he can get himself some decent gear.

“Man, give me one of those,” he says, holding out a begging hand. But Jordan shakes his head.

“Need ‘em both to block it out, innit.”

Jordan has his back to these guys. Eames is clearly the one in greater need, but Jordan has always been the type to look out for himself. Not like Parkie, who’ll put his mates first every time. Nah, coming to visit Eames’s brother has been Jordan’s good deed for the day.

“Fuck you, blud,” Eames says, but Jordan already has the ear buds snug in his ears. He flips Eames off and pops his shoulders, all slick-like, to the beat Eames cannot hear.

“Arthur. For God’s sake,” one of the posh twats bursts out suddenly, his voice cutting above the rumble of other conversation. “Sometimes it’s so obvious that you are not from around here.”

Them accents set Eames’s teeth on edge. Though, with nothing else to listen to, he can’t help but drop a few eaves. He pulls the brim of his cap further down over his eyes and slumps a bit lower in his seat, letting his legs sprawl out into the aisle.

“I’m sure that America is positively transcendent in its commitment to equality,” one of the other boys is saying. “But class still exists in this country.”

“I worry about you,” the first guy says. “One day you’ll be carried off by one of them and we won’t even find out about it until it’s far too late for us to save you.”

“I still bet that guy would make a better fuck than you, Seb. I wouldn’t need saving from some good sex. It’d make a pleasant change.” This is a new voice, not like the others. It has a TV accent, the only one Eames still can’t quite master: American.

There’s laughter.

“Forget being carried off, darling. You keep mouthing off at me like that and I’ll hand you right over, like a lamb to the fucking slaughter.”

Forget being carried off, darling. Eames moves his lips, his tongue, over these words, trying to get the shape of them right. Like a lamb to the fucking slaughter.

“He is hot, though,” the second Chelsea boy chips in. “Bloody waste.”

Eames glances up in time to see every single one of these lads staring right at him. All of them are lean, willowy, swagged up in clinging trousers, with crisp shirts and shoes that gleam. They’re all staring, but only one of them meets Eames’s eyes – the fit one. He’s darker and a little shorter than the others, with a complexion what looks like it’s seen more than a Londoner’s fair share of sun lately. It’s obvious he is the American. When the boy sees Eames staring back at him, the corners of his mouth lift up, just a bit, and Eames is seized with an unexpected urge to stand up, walk right over, start chatting him up, as though they could talk to one another with nothing in between.

“Is we gettin’ off the bus at your mum’s house, or what?” Jordan says, bringing Eames crashing back to his senses.

“What?”

Jordan’s voice is too loud. He still has his ear buds in and is shouting over the bass which is thumping through the little scraps of foam. “We is stoppin’ at your mum’s, innit?”

Eames nods. “Yeah, bruv.”

The bus is rocking to a halt when Eames looks up again and the city boys are fluttering against each other, pushing their way to the door.

Eames finds himself willing the American to look back. The boy does and all, a quick glance over one shoulder right before he steps off the bus, which sends a pulse shooting through Eames’s chest, hard and unexpected like a bass line kicking in.

The windows are steamed with condensation. Eames swipes a palm across the glass, clearing a space to look through. But the bus is beginning to roll once more, and one of them Chelsea lads is tugging at the American’s elbow, urging him away. Eames watches from the window as his boy turns round and, still in the custody of those horsey companions, strolls off into the grey London drizzle.

Bloody waste, Eames thinks. Then, he slumps back in his seat and forgets that he ever saw him.

*

Jordyn kisses him full on the mouth as they are leaving the pub. Eames pulls away from her, scrunching up his face.

“Gay means gay, blud,” he says. “You is missing a crucial piece of anatomy, you get me?”

Jordyn’s eyes are lined dark, her hair scraped back tight from her face. She smirks at him then flicks her tongue in and out like a snake, showing the silver bar glinting through its centre.

“I got this, though.”

“Ain’t the same as having a cock, love.” Eames reaches down to squeeze between her legs, just to make her squeal and grab at his hand. He does it right as he’s heading out the door so that when she throws a punch after him, it can’t connect to do real damage.

“Man, being a poof lets you get away with fuckin’ murder, don’t it?” Parkie says, pulling his jacket tight around him as he steps out the pub after Eames.

“Has to be some perks, innit.”

Eames flips his hood up and slouches his shoulders so he can walk to the end of the road without drawing attention. They are already too conspicuous in this part of town, but there weren’t no way Eames was going to squeeze his bollocks into a pair of skinny jeans just to blend in. Them Shoreditch dickheads might get off on crushing their boys to raisins, but Eames needs to hang free.

Him and Parkie are only heading round the corner to where a dark little road splits from the high street. Parkie has already lit a fag. He passes it to Eames after just a couple of drags because Parkie’s bare safe like that.

They stop at the top of the road. Further down, a load of hipster twats are crowding the entrance to some trendy pub. It’s far away enough that they won’t notice what’s going on, but close enough that their laughter will cover up whatever noise the break-in might make. It’s a good spot. The lads have picked well. Eames ain’t done this more than a handful of times, but the other boys know what it’s about. Not the barest whiff of a copper on any job they’ve pulled so far.

Between the end of the street and the hipster pub Eames can see the silhouettes of men waiting in the dim light.

“Safe, man,” Parkie says, “You know how this goes.” He claps a hand around Eames’s, then slinks off towards the shadowy figures.

Eames drops his shoulders against the wall of the nearest building and stands there smoking, watching the city people pass by. He doesn’t turn around when he hears the sound of breaking glass behind him, instead keeping his eyes on the gap between the buildings, where the high street begins. He’s drawn the short straw tonight. Waiting on the boys to get done is long. Being lookout always makes him nervous.

It’s actually alright round here, if you ignore all the puffy-haired, tight-trousered twats. Walking down towards the spider web of roads round Old Street station you’ll find nightclubs hidden under bridges, cocktail bars on cobbled squares, as much Vietnamese food as you can shove in your face. The place reeks of luck. It has an easy vibe, a feeling like living here would put you right on the cusp of something pretty great.

“If he comes near me, I will beat him in his fucking face.”

Eames is busy stamping out the end of his fag, but he looks up when he hears the voices. After a quick glance towards the high street, he edges further down the road until he can make out two men, who have broken off from the pub crowd. They are standing too close for comfort, right near the building with the freshly smashed windows.

“Darling, you can’t talk like that,” one of the men says. “For God’s sake, this isn’t the bloody Bronx.”

“I’m from California, asshole,” the other one snaps, turning his back, walking away.

“Well, you live in Kensington these days,” the first man calls after him. “Or did you forget?”

The first man is just feet away from the electrical shop where the boys are still working. Eames hears the crack of glass beneath his posh shoes and sees the moment he becomes aware that something is not right.

“Oh Arthur, let’s not. You know he doesn’t mean it.”

The guy is ignoring his friend and staring at the shop windows. If he looks too hard, he’ll catch the flicker of torches inside. Eames can’t have that. He holds off, though, until he sees the guy put one hand into the pocket of his tight trousers and come out again holding his phone. That’s when Eames steps forwards, the scuff of his trainers made louder by the acoustics of the narrow street.

The boys both look up. In the dark, they won’t be able to see Eames’s face, just a hunched and hooded figure. That’s usually enough to put the fear of God into twats like these. The one with the phone in his hand doesn’t react much, but his friend hurries forwards and grabs his arm.

“Come on now, darling,” he says, tugging at him, shooting nervous glances in Eames’s direction,

“It’s my round. I’ll make yours a double.”

The boy still doesn’t move. In fact, he seems totally calm, and that’s trouble. It’ll take more than some looming to shake this one. Eames runs his tongue over his teeth, cracks his knuckles loose and steps forwards again, near enough this time to show he means business.

“Arthur,” the friend says and finally the man with the phone pays attention. He turns around again, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. It is a touch amongst bredren, an ‘I’ve got your back against this shady chav’ kind of gesture. It is protective, something Eames respects.

He watches them walk back where they belong, staying put until they are out of sight, until his crew are emerging from the electrical store and Parkie is taking him by the shoulder in exactly the same way, to lead him safely from the scene.

*

The busier the streets, the lonelier the city makes Eames feel.

Trafalgar Square is crowded with people – teeming, writhing, foaming with them – half of them drunk, all of them loud. It is New Year’s Eve, the countdown is fast approaching and for the first time in his memory, Eames is not in Hackney with his mates.

See, there’s some things you don’t do at home. There’s things you go away for because that’s what’s best for you, best for the bredren, best for everyone. If Eames wants to spend the stroke of midnight kissing someone he’s honestly hot for, then home ain’t that accommodating from where he stands. That’s what brought him city centre, where people don’t look each other in the eye and nobody gives a shit what you do with your mouth because it’s all been seen before.

But things ain’t the same without Parkie and the others. Being able to pull a bloke for a quick shag in a toilet stall and then a snog on the stroke of twelve don’t make up for the crew not being here. Anyway, the boy he was with in the loos is gone now, lost to the crowds. When the chimes hit, Eames won’t have nothing to do but join the push for the tube, craning his neck to catch a glimpse of fireworks.

With a couple of minutes left on the clock it suddenly hits him just how long this whole evening has been. If he leaves now, he might make it on the tube before it gets really fucking mental. He’ll miss the chimes and be far below the fireworks, but at least he’ll be on his way to people who give a shit about him.

Eames turns round, too quick in a crowd this thick, immediately colliding with a guy in a pale shirt. He is dark-haired, elegant, and stumbles from the impact. The crash is hard enough to knock half the wind out of Eames’s lungs. He starts to apologise before he’s even got enough breath to do so. He has his arms around the guy, using the grip to get his own balance back while the man holds tight to his forearms and the crowd jostles around them.

There’s a spark of attraction as their eyes meet. Eames feels it in his gut like a physical jolt of energy. The boy is lovely. But he is also clearly tripping out, his pupils big enough to burst his eyeballs. Right now he is probably sparking with everyone he touches.

They are face to face as the chimes begin and the crowd lifts in a wave of cheers. The boy is smiling now, but sort of wry, like he’s taking the piss of the whole situation. There are dimples in his cheeks.

“Happy New Year,” he says with a slur.

Eames has the urge to kiss him then, is swear down about to - when can you snog a stranger if not on New Year’s Eve? - but a pair of arms reaches suddenly between them, prising them apart. It is a blonde man, who has a face like Bear Grylls and a voice like he has swallowed cotton wool.

“Arthur, come on, old boy. There’s no excuse for that,” the man says, pulling the dark-haired guy towards him. They are together, no doubt. This man’s pupils are looking pretty hench and all. “I apologise for him,” he says to Eames, swinging an arm around his boyfriend. “He’s literally off his face.”

Eames shakes his head. “No bother, bruv.”

The dark-haired guy apologises too, which is ironic really, because Eames no longer feels apologetic at all. He likes that name, Arthur. You got to be a certain kind to have a name like that. Eames would have a name like that for himself, given half a chance.

As he turns away, the two men are already trying to inhale one another’s tongues, just as it should be when you are hot and young and have nobody to beat you up for it.

Eames lowers his head and uses his shoulder to force his way through the crowd. The chimes are over. The streets will be busy for hours yet and he still has a long way home.

*

He doesn’t remember any of this. In London chance encounters happen and slip away again like sand in an hourglass. It is impossible to hold onto them all.

*

Years later, with his latest cut burning a hole in his pocket, Eames steps into G-A-Y like he owns it. He is ‘city’ now, renting out a sick little place not far from Old Street. All them trendy cocktail bars are his for the taking if he can only develop a taste for that shit.

These days, his life feels like it is racing away from him.

He’s come central to go on the pull. That hasn’t changed. You get a certain type out Shoreditch way, a type Eames ain’t after tonight. Propping up the bar, pint in hand, he scans the dance floor, trying to pick someone just right. For a moment, he gets distracted watching a boy in hot pants who has the most amazing arse, round and tight, so tempting. But getting with that would be false economy. A boy like that is not what Eames needs.

Then he spots the one, right in the thick of it, raving out at the centre of the dance floor. There is that look of privilege about him. The boy got cash and probably power too, just what Eames is looking for. He’s fit and all. That perfect body would look so right spread out, spread open, on Eames’s sheets. He got a familiar groove on him, something in the swing of his hips or the careless toss of his head that makes Eames feel like he knows him already. There’s someone dancing with him. That don’t matter though, Eames can take that guy out in a jiff.

He starts to approach as one track melts into the next, weaving through the bodies on the dance floor until he gets where he wants to be, close enough to smell this boy’s sweat and cologne, to see individual strands of his hair. It takes nothing but an old school evil to send the competition packing.

Eames’s heart stutters as he finally slides his hands around his boy’s waist, because of the song playing, that Poppiholla thing - a new favourite of Boy Jordan’s that always gives him chills. That stutter ain’t for the boy, who is just another shag and maybe a chance of some swanky connections if Eames is lucky.

They dance for a while until Eames figures they’re good to seal the deal. Then, he leans forwards, putting his mouth right close to the boy’s ear so he can be heard over the music and, in his best pulling voice says, “You’re fuckin’ peng, you know that?”

The boy turns and kisses him proper ─ tongue, teeth, no messing ─ and it hits Eames in a way that is totally unexpected. Right away he can tell this man is a game-changer and that his kiss is the start of something huge.


End file.
